


Plucked & Hammered

by dontbelasagnax, vipjuly



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hannibal's Harpsichord, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbelasagnax/pseuds/dontbelasagnax, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Tilting his head, Will brushed the man’s ear with his lips as he murmured lowly, seductively. “If you play one more note on this godforsaken instrument I will tie you up and make you watch as I rip it apart piece by piece--and then give some to the dogs for fetch, use some to build shelves in the study, and then set the rest on fire.”Hannibal tensed, withdrawing his hands from the keys with the help of Will’s iron grip.“I see.”AKA, Will fucking hates it when Hannibal plays the goddamn harpsichord.Hannibal feels differently about Will playing the piano, though.**INCLUDES ART FROMDONTBELASAGNAX**
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 161





	Plucked & Hammered

**Author's Note:**

> well, we tend to write lil fics to each other in our dm's and it pretty much always spirals

He started small. 

When Hannibal sat at his harpsichord, Will did idle tasks that would ultimately draw the man away from it. Dusting, sweeping, mopping. Tiny things that Hannibal much preferred to do himself; not because he felt Will wouldn’t do a good job, but because it was in Hannibal’s nature to be the host with the most, and not only would his neuroticisms interrupt Will, but so would his conscience, ever so insistent that Will not lift a finger. Which was ridiculous, because Will was perfectly capable, but it was a Hannibal… _ism_ , part of his design, and who was Will to take that away from him? 

Other times Will would gather laundry in his arms rather than the basket, navigating his way through the house to the mudroom. Even in their perfect “after life” Hannibal lived in opulence, their home large and elegant. Granted, it was smaller than Hannibal’s Baltimore home by a few hundred square feet, given the fact that they still needed to fly under the radar, but still. The trek from master bedroom to mud room included one flight of stairs and a trek through the entire main floor. This was something that distressed Hannibal considerably. He would get up, rush to Will’s side, and insist that he help carry the load. He’d chide Will about using the basket, to which Will would shrug and smile, saying that the basket was more cumbersome than his own arms coming down the narrow staircase. 

If the situation arose that it was harder to pull Hannibal away from the blasted instrument, Will would draw the big guns. He’d wear the least amount of clothing as possible, make sure he was saturated with his scent by forgoing his daily shower, and _drape_ himself all over the bay window area where the harpsichord was situated. He’d lounge on the nook bench with a book, making sure his body language was as open and languid as possible. He’d rest an elbow atop the instrument, watching Hannibal’s fingers play. He’d sit next to the doctor on the bench, lean into him, kiss across the slope of his neck. 

That was usually the easiest, most surefire way to distract the man from his beloved music. 

Eventually, though, Hannibal increased the frequency of playing. Will knew he was composing a song, but now instead of a few times a week, Hannibal started working on it _nightly_. Every fucking night he would play the harpsichord for dessert, plucking away at the strange, tinny-sounding keys, creating a beautiful melody that immediately grated on Will’s nerves. Not known for his patience, Will would immediately hop on him, pulling him away from the instrument for a passionate round that would effectively keep Hannibal away from the harpsichord for the rest of the night. 

It only took a few nights for Will to realize that his plan was backfiring miserably. Moving from chores to sex had been a mistake. Not because he didn’t want to have sex with his husband--not at all--but because Hannibal seemed to be _encouraged_ by Will’s seduction, likely assuming that playing the harpsichord was triggering a Pavlovian response within the ex-agent to draw him into amorous affairs. 

He couldn’t be more tragically incorrect. 

Two straight weeks of after-dinner harpsichord and sex had Will frayed. His body, approaching middle-age, couldn’t bounce back like it used to. And his ears, _fuck_ , his ears couldn’t take anymore. Normally a patient man, Will felt his sanity slipping--and he _definitely_ knew what that felt like. 

After a delicious dinner of pickled celery nduja toast and roasted duck, Will stayed dressed in his house pants and button-down. He stared daggers at Hannibal’s back where he played his beloved instrument, oblivious to the world around him as he lost himself in treble clefs and drawn out notes. Flexing his fingers into fists and relaxing them over and over again, Will strode toward Hannibal. His palms connected fully but gently with Hannibal’s shoulder blades, the man leaning back into him with a soft hum, likely assuming that Will was here for another after-dinner affair. Sliding his hands over Hannibal’s shoulders to rub his palms over the swell of the man’s pecs through his dress shirt, Will pressed his front against Hannibal’s back, nosing into his soft hair and inhaling slowly. Even through his annoyance, physical contact with the man was like a balm for his body and mind. 

Yet, Hannibal continued playing.

Clenching his jaw, Will slid his hands down Hannibal’s arms, feeling the sinew of those strong muscles flexing and moving along with his graceful fingers as they tapped along the keys. He bent slightly to rest his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder nuzzling his scruffy cheek against Hannibal’s smooth one. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, then allowed his fingers to encircle Hannibal’s wrists, preventing him from playing.

“Oh?” Hannibal mused with interest, like foreplay with Will was a treat every time, and not like they’d been at it for over a year. 

Tilting his head, Will brushed the man’s ear with his lips as he murmured lowly, seductively. “If you play one more note on this godforsaken instrument I will tie you up and make you watch as I rip it apart piece by piece--and then give some to the dogs for fetch, use some to build shelves in the study, and then set the rest on fire.” 

Hannibal tensed, withdrawing his hands from the keys with the help of Will’s iron grip. 

“I see.” 

_Finally_.

\--

The harpsichord was moved to Hannibal’s office, where Will rarely ventured to. Here in South America no one knew who he and Hannibal were, so they were able to lead relatively normal lives; either the FBI gave up on trying to find them, or figured they were someone else’s problem. In any case, Hannibal had set up his psychiatric practice once more, a moth to flame, his odd narcissism and ego needing to be stroked from sources that were not Will Graham. 

Will Graham didn’t believe in stroking egos, anyway.

In the harpsichord’s place was a baby grand piano. Sleek, dark wood, perfectly tuned with a matching bench. Compared to the rest of the decor it was unassuming, but most definitely not out of place. Will knew that Hannibal needed some sort of grandeur in order to function, seeking out his fix like an addict. But this was tolerable. Hannibal didn’t really play the piano, his harpsichord his baby, and Will liked the look of a piano in the den as well, just not as obviously as Hannibal. 

One day in the afternoon, Will sat down at the piano. There was sheet music stored neatly in the bench, and a few pages of _Vaganova_ on the piano itself. He distantly remembered being very young and learning how to play at the nice neighbor lady’s house, a woman who filled the role of grandma quite neatly for him as a child. He could almost smell her perfume and the cookies she was perpetually baking, could almost feel her wrinkly hands placing his own child-sized ones over the keys. 

It was a memory that filled him with warmth. A rarity, after all he’d been through. 

Muscle memory had his hands lifting over the keys. His eyes roved over the nearly forgotten sheet music, a door in his memory palace unlocking and swinging open to place him in the middle of Mildred’s sitting room. He was ten years old again, first playing scales to warm up and test the tune of the piano, before he fell into rhythm of the music before his eyes. It was like riding a bicycle, his hands and fingers moving in tandem to produce bright, airy music, so unlike the tinny tones that Hannibal favored on his harpsichord. 

He put his toes on the pedal, pressing it down every few bars for the desired effect. His hands, clean of blood and clear of injuries, moved over the keys like they were young again. The stretch of his pinkies and thumbs were second nature, a small smile tugging on his lips as he followed the notes of the sheet music up and down the bar. He only stumbled when he reached up to flip the page, and even then it was barely a blip, his tempo slowing to compensate for the removal of five fingers. 

The instant Hannibal was nearby, he knew. There was always a shift in the atmosphere, a change in temperature whenever Hannibal’s eyes were on him. But he continued playing, his lashes fluttering, fingers pressing confidently into the keys. Though he’d grown impatient of Hannibal’s playing, he knew the doctor would never tire of his. A connoisseur of everything elegant and beautiful, along with being well-accustomed to Will’s prickliness, Hannibal wouldn’t shoo Will away from the piano like Will had done to him. Part of Will thought maybe he should feel bad. The other part didn’t care. 

Hannibal left. 

Will finished off the song with a flourish. 

\--

A week later, Will sat down at the piano once more. This time he opened up the bench to see what else had been stored. It was random, the composers varying from theatrical to classical. He plucked an arrangement from the pile, putting it up on the piano before taking a seat. He once again warmed up with scales, this time feeling Hannibal’s presence much sooner than he had the previous week. He was closer. Will could feel the heat coming off of him. Doing his best to not pay him any mind, Will stroked through the simple but effusive bars. Closing his eyes, his whole body moved with his hands, a small smile on his features. That same warm feeling of being in Mildred’s home washed over him. Hannibal’s presence didn’t detract from the comfort; in fact, Hannibal being so close only amplified the sensation. 

Two polarized parts of his life meshing together. 

His fingers were clumsier on this piece, some of the combinations and finger spreads more complicated than the piece from last week, but he powered through. Hannibal came even closer, his heat pressing against Will’s shoulder. As the piece came to the end, Hannibal bent to press a chaste, sweet kiss to Will’s scruff cheek.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal complimented.

Will only slightly felt bad that he’d gotten annoyed with the other man’s harpsichord playing. 

Only slightly.

\--

A week later, Hannibal was seated on the piano bench. When Will sat down Hannibal touched him, sweetly and softly, encouraging him to play. He pressed chaste kisses to Will’s cheek and neck and shoulders, encouraging him silently. Will played dynamically, ignoring his mistakes and enjoying the clear, crisp sound of the finely tuned piano surrounding them. 

Hannibal’s presence was amplified by the little bubble they made, them and the piano. 

\--

It took a while for Will to realize that Hannibal appeared like clockwork around the piano playing. Will didn’t have a schedule of any sort, he just kind of plopped down when he had a moment and felt like it, but Hannibal was always there, no matter what he’d been doing in the meantime. Hannibal’s attire changed subtly as well, but Will’s perceptive eye caught it. 

He’d be dressed down, jacket and waistcoat gone. Or he’d be wearing house slippers instead of his loafers. Or his hair would be ruffled. Or he’d wear his house coat over his suit. Small, nuanced things that the average person wouldn’t notice but spoke volumes to Will. At first he thought Hannibal was tuning into his own emotions, mirroring his comfort. 

And then, one day, Will went to the piano, surprised to see Hannibal already there.

Or rather, surprised to see Hannibal… _on_ the piano. 

Draped elegantly, that is, wearing a silk robe with plush fur lining on the collar and cuffs of the sleeves. The colors were rich and bold, a masculine pattern swirling through the silk, the fur a deep, inky black. His hair was unstyled, his feet bare, and as he adjusted how he was sitting on the top of the piano, his toes elegantly pressed to the keys, the slip of skin exposed let Will know that Hannibal was stark naked under his robe as he crossed his legs. The man was a vision, tan skin and silver hair bathed in the warmth from the chandelier hanging above the piano.

Will’s mouth went dry. 

With the grace of a ballerino Hannibal leaned to the side, extending an arm to cushion him as he laid out. He drew his legs up, the robe parting over his chest to expose the thatch of grey hair covering his skin, and there, resting on his elbow with one leg extended and one leg stretched, he looked like a Greek god awaiting his daily grapes. 

It dawned on Will that he’d managed to ensnare Hannibal in with his piano playing, a mirror of what Hannibal thought he’d been doing to Will with his harpsichord. Swallowing thickly, Will approached the piano. There was already sheet music in place. Sitting down, Will stretched his fingers and rotated his wrists, not missing the way Hannibal’s eyes zeroed in on them. 

Smirking to himself, Will warmed up with scales. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on him like a heat ray gun. The man seemed to think every inch of Will was worthy of praise, sexual or otherwise, but Will knew that he was particularly fond of his hands, in everything they did. Helping in the kitchen. Yard work. Crafting lures. Playing the piano.

Draining the life out of a human being. 

The piece Hannibal had chosen was a little faster than Will was used to, but he tapped the rhythm out with his toe and then started. It was a combination of his fingers walking up and down the entire length of the keys and then back to center, his pinkies stretched and the press of black keys nearly feeling like a mashing were it not for the perfect way the ivories complemented them. He glanced up from the sheet music to Hannibal intermittently, watching the man watch his hands. Those bordeaux eyes were glued to the tendons shifting under his skin, tracing over healed wounds and scars. Heat crept up Will’s neck at the sight of Hannibal so transfixed on his hands. 

He flubbed an entire bar when Hannibal eased the robe off of his body, discarding it like a Hollywood starlet as he cast it carelessly aside. Of course he’d seen Hannibal naked before. Frequently. Nearly every single day. But the absolute grace the man was emitting now, feline and liquid was nothing at all like Will’s awkward bumblings of seduction with the harpsichord. Hannibal devoured and consumed elegance and finesse so finely that it was all he oozed. And in this moment, the man aroused and flushed and rolling onto his stomach so he can comfortably relax while watching Will’s hands move… 

Recovering, Will did his best to continue the piece. Hannibal looked smitten, absolutely infatuated.

Of course, Will thought to himself, Hannibal would turn the situation around like this. With Will blatantly telling him to stuff his harpsichord up his ass or die, he was a little surprised that Hannibal entertained his piano playing with such enthusiasm. Then again, it was another facet of Will that he hadn’t shown to Hannibal, and the doctor was greedy about information when it came to learning more about Will. They could psychoanalyze each other in a half a second, know what the other is thinking at any given time, but their pasts… those were books with pages meant to be read one at a time. 

Hannibal’s warm skin was clouding the glaze of the piano. Heat was radiating off of him, and if Will had been wearing his glasses, they’d probably have fogged by now. He worked through the rest of the piece on sheer will alone, doing his best to not glue his eyes to Hannibal’s beautiful ass, but his fingers became clumsier and clumsier, and then finally, Hannibal spoke. 

“Tell me Will,” he mused aloud, the pitch of his voice matching the notes of the piano and turning it into a true song, “do you know the difference between the harpsichord and the piano?” 

“One makes me want to put a screwdriver into my ear?” Will snarked reflexively. 

“The harpsichord makes noise from…” Hannibal reached out, gently twirling a lock of curly hair around his index finger. “... _plucking_.” He violently tugged that lock, causing Will to suck in a hitched breath as his fingers stumbled over the keys. “The piano makes noise from…” Hannibal’s lashes lowered coyly, his spine arching a bit to accentuate the curve of his ass. “... _hammering_.” 

The song dissolved into a mash of notes as Will slammed both hands over the keys, abandoning the song as he scrambled to get up on to the piano as well, hoping he didn’t break anything as he practically tackled Hannibal, blind arousal taking over his physical body. 

The notes died, the tune replaced by Hannibal’s pleased sighs and moans. 

It figured that, throughout all of this… 

Hannibal ended up playing Will like a fiddle.

He’ll never complain about that damn harpsichord again.

**Author's Note:**

> please give love to gabi's [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lasagnaxart/)  
> 


End file.
